i was looking for a hooker (when i found you)

Summary:

Stiles is a twenty year old virgin who really wants to get fucked. But he doesn't want it to be super awkward or strange with some person he picks up in a bar so he orders a call man or whatever you call a male call girl [gigolo? Hustlers are on the street?] and he asks them to come to a hotel. Cue Derek who is not a hooker! but accidentally knocks on the wrong door, and Stiles is all HOLY SHIT YES and kisses him, and Derek is like, well, it's the right door now, and they have sex.

Cue the next morning when Stiles is all, I didn't know hookers spend the night and Derek is like, what do you mean hookers. [Please leave Derek as a werewolf.]

Notes:

Title from 'Lost Kitten', by Metric. Nobody ever accused me of being subtle. Or of being good with titles.

For LJ user gaypornninja over at teenwolfkink. I hope it's sort of close to what you were looking for!

Chapter Text

The business card sits innocently on the hotel room’s side table, embossed ink gleaming up against thick, expensive cardstock: FULL MOON ESCORT AGENCY, ALL TASTES WELCOME. Stiles is pretty sure it’s actually mocking him at this point. He would be, in its place; he’s been sitting on the bed with the number up on his phone’s screen for at least fifteen minutes, trying to work up the nerve to make the call. At this point it's looking like it might be time to just admit defeat and go home. Which would be the ultimate irony, after what he had to go through to even get this card-he’s pretty sure he used up all his past and future favors (and dignity) asking Danny for it. Danny would either die of laughter or vicarious shame if Stiles came back after all this and told him that he, Stiles, was too lame to even pay for sex.

“For Christ’s sake,” he mumbles under his breath, and hits the ‘Call’ button. They’re probably going to be closed, anyway. Maybe Danny was just fucking with him and the number goes to a pizza place or something. Or maybe they won’t answer. That would be good. Stiles would be okay with that. He’ll just die a lonely virgin, no big.

He drops his phone and nearly falls off the bed when the ringing stops. “Full Moon, this is Lydia,” the voice on the other end purrs. “How can I help?”

Stiles retrieves his phone and stares at it. “You were supposed to be a pizza place,” he hisses at it, betrayed.

There’s an indignant pause on the other end of the line. “Excuse me?” She’s definitely not purring anymore. “Is this one of Jackson’s little friends again? Because I’m not getting back with him, and you can tell him that.”

“I...no?” Stiles says. “I got this number from my roommate, and I’m pretty sure he’s not interested in girls. Or escorts. Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those!” he adds hastily, wincing. Jesus, at this rate he’s probably going to be the only person blacklisted from an escort agency sight unseen. “I just wanted to, um. Order someone? Is that the right phrase, because I’m pretty new at this. Like, really new. It’s not that I haven’t, um, done stuff, just...not with guys.”

“I see. I’ll make a note of it,” Lydia says smoothly, obviously smothering a grin. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

“In mind,” Stiles says blankly. “You mean, like, looks? Um, I’d prefer hot,” and oh, god, he’s the master of smooth tonight. Maybe Craigslist wouldn’t have been such a bad plan after all; serial killers probably don’t care too much about things like ‘charm’ and ‘tact’ and ‘being able to talk without sounding like a total moron'.

“Right, okay, yeah. Um-tall and built, I guess? And dark hair.” Stiles pauses. “Um. And can I put in requests for non-physical stuff? Like, if I was looking for someone who was kind of-” he stops, scrambling for a word that’s less loaded than ‘dominant’. “Forceful? Could you do that?” and yeah, no, that’s just as bad. He needs to buy a thesaurus. “I mean, nothing weird or anything. Um. I’m going to stop talking now.”

There’s a sound on the other end that sounds suspiciously like a muffled laugh to Stiles, and then Lydia’s back. “Of course,” she says smoothly. “Easily. Now, we do ask for payment up front, and there are naturally some guidelines that we ask our clients to follow-in return, of course, we guarantee complete anonymity...”

Stiles gives her his credit card number and with it half of this semester’s allowance, gritting his teeth as he rattles off the digits. This guy better be fucking awesome.

“Enjoy!” Lydia says brightly. “Someone should be at your door in about half an hour.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says faintly, and hangs up.

He spends the next ten minutes showering frantically and the five after that trying to figure out what to wear; his ‘Revenge of the Californian Swamp Creature’ t-shirt is pretty hilarious, but he’s not really going for that tonight. After ten minutes, he finally gives up and zips a hoodie on over his bare chest. It’s not like it really matters, right? And it’s been almost half an hour-whoever Lydia sent over is probably almost at the door.

Forty-five minutes later, Stiles is writing his Craigslist post in his head (wanted: one serial killer, preferably deaf and disease-free) when there’s finally a knock at the door. He springs up from the bed and walks briskly-well, okay, maybe he runs a little-to peer through the keyhole.

It’s hard to see much through the peephole, but there’s definitely a tall, dark-haired guy standing out in the hall. Good enough. Stiles takes a deep breath and yanks the door open before he loses his nerve.

“What the hell happened to ‘thirty minutes’?” Stiles asks, and then stops short, his mouth dropping open a little.

Jesus, that was money well spent, Danny’s a fucking genius. Because the guy is gorgeous, all of Stiles’ wet dreams and half-buried fantasies come to life. Stiles can’t help himself-he lingers over the guy’s warm hazel eyes, the shadowed planes of his face, his broad shoulders, his arms. Nobody should be allowed to have arms like that. It’s indecent, there should be laws against it.

The guy’s brow furrows, and he opens his mouth to say something-’you’re drooling’, maybe, or ‘do you have a head injury’-but Stiles doesn’t let him finish. He reaches out and tugs the guy in by the collar of his t-shirt, kicking the door shut and crowding him against it as soon as they’re both in. Stiles crushes his fear down ruthlessly and just goes for it, slipping his hands under the guy’s shirt and pulling him in. He’s stiff, though, his mouth slack and unresponsive against Stiles’.

After a second, Stiles starts to pull away, heart sinking a little. He hesitates, about to-apologize? Explain to this guy why he just got jumped by a total stranger? when the guy comes alive and yanks Stiles back into the kiss, his hands moving up to grip hard at Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles is panting for breath when they finally break apart, and when he sneaks a look up he’s gratified to see that the other man is, too.

“Fucking amazing,” Stiles breathes-he probably sounds like a creep, but who cares. “What’s your name?” he asks, and doesn’t get an actual answer from the guy, just a considering stare, eyes dragging up Stiles appreciatively. Stiles flushes, taken off guard by the look-it’s like they’re in a bar or a club and Stiles hasn’t paid for this. Like this guy’s actually into Stiles. Which is ridiculous: he’s beyond out of Stiles’ league. He’s playing the major leagues in baseball, and Stiles is sitting second string in, like, curling. Minor-league curling, even, if that’s a thing.

“I’m Derek,” the guy says at last, eyes fixed on Stiles’ mouth. Stiles starts self-consciously and lifts his hand to his bottom lip, kiss-bruised and red where he’s been worrying at it with his teeth.

“Bad habit,” he explains. “I keep running out of lip balm, it’s getting to be a problem,” and how is he managing to be even more of a babbling wreck in front of someone who already knows he’s a loser? It’s scientifically impossible. Stiles is probably some kind of genetic mutant whose superpower is never getting laid. He’s the saddest X-Men character ever.

“I wouldn’t call it a problem,” Derek says. He moves closer in, and Stiles freezes, stricken. He’s suddenly unpleasantly aware of how he must look to Derek: barefoot in threadbare jeans on the dingy hotel carpet, his hoodie halfway unzipped in a fit of nerves ten minutes ago. His seduction skills could probably use some work.

“Good,” Stiles says, swallowing down a burst of panic. “Um. So I guess you know I’m kind of new to this?”

“New to this,” Derek echoes, a little blankly.

Stiles flushes. “Like. To this,” he says significantly, waving a hand between the two of them.

Stiles hesitates. The agency actually only has his given name, the one nobody uses, which he had been fine with at the time, but. He doesn’t think he’d mind Derek knowing his real one. “Stiles,” he says. “I’m Stiles.”

“What do you like, Stiles?” Derek asks, moving close, and oh. Stiles takes it back, he definitely regrets giving Derek his real name. He’s not going to last ten seconds if Derek keeps saying it like that.

“I’m still working on that part,” Stiles says shakily. “Like I said, I’m sort of-”

“New to this,” Derek finishes for him, using the hand he has on Stiles’ shoulder to propel Stiles against the wall and reaching the other up to the zipper of Stiles’ hoodie, drawing it slowly down.

Stiles sucks in a startled breath at the soft snick his zipper makes as Derek reaches its end. He fidgets a little, fighting the urge to cross his arms across his bare chest against the heat of the look Derek’s giving him. “I’m open to suggestion,” he says.

Derek’s hands move underneath Stiles’ unzipped hoodie, sliding it off his shoulders and onto the floor. “I might have a few ideas,” he suggests, voice low and rough, and bends down to Stiles’ neck, ducking into the curve of his jaw and inhaling deeply. He’s got his hands around Stiles’ waist, thumbs rubbing lazy circles into his hipbones.

“Like I said,” Stiles manages, his hands moving automatically to Derek’s shoulders and clutching at the soft cotton of Derek’s shirt for desperately-needed support. “I’m open to-fuck,” he says, feelingly, as Derek’s hands slide down and squeeze his ass, pulling Stiles flush against him.

“Like that?” Derek murmurs, but it’s a rhetorical question, has to be, because he’s nudging his thigh between Stiles’ legs and it must be pretty goddamn obvious how much Stiles likes it.

He can hear Derek smirk, the bastard. Stiles tilts his head and opens his mouth to say something cutting-he’s not sure what. It doesn’t matter anyway, because Derek is suddenly right there, kissing him.

Stiles’ first kiss was Jenny Lorenzo, in eleventh grade. Her mouth had been tentative against his, her lips sticky-sweet with gloss, and right after she had pushed him away and told him that she didn’t think they were right for each other, and could they be friends. He hadn’t minded too much.

This is-different. Stiles wants this, wants it more than he can remember wanting anything. He licks into Derek’s mouth, traces a hand up his neck to clutch hard at his hair. Derek growls at that, and fuck, Stiles is spoiled for life on this shit. He rocks up into Derek’s thigh greedily, wanting more.

“Bed?” he suggests, pulling away from Derek’s mouth for a bare second. He can have this one time, he reminds himself: just this once. It has to count.

Derek’s eyes darken at that. “Yeah,” he agrees roughly, and then picks Stiles up and tosses him on the bed, which is way hotter than it really has any right to be. Stiles looks up dazedly when Derek’s hands tug impatiently at his jeans, lifting his hips almost without meaning to.

He’s totally naked now. That’s awesome, Stiles is totally on board with that, but Derek still somehow has all his clothes on, which Stiles is significantly less okay with. “Off,” he says, gesturing at Derek’s-everything. “Seriously, you’re slacking here.”

“Slacking,” Derek says slowly, standing at the edge of the bed with an amused twist to his mouth. “How’s that?”

“You’re wearing clothing,” Stiles says pointedly. “Stop doing that.”

Derek smirks at that, but he also tugs his shirt off, so Stiles counts it as a win. Almost. “Happy now?” he asks, a teasing edge to his voice.

Stiles narrows his eyes at Derek’s hands, hovering at the waistband of his jeans. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Why don’t you do it, then, if you want them off so badly?” Derek’s tone is still light, still teasing, but there’s a challenge in his eyes.

Stiles glares and sits up, a flare of satisfaction going through him at Derek’s surprised look. “Well, if you’re not going to,” he says. He undoes Derek’s fly, leaning down to mouth wetly at the line of Derek’s cock through his briefs. Derek’s breath stutters, and he splays his fingers across Stiles’ shoulders, grip almost hard enough to bruise. Stiles licks at it again, tongue rasping through the fabric, before he pulls back and grins wildly up at Derek, fingers hooked through Derek’s belt loops and tugging hard. “Off,” he says firmly.

Derek growls at that, which is both hot and a little disconcerting, but it doesn’t matter-he steps out of his jeans and underwear and finally, finally joins Stiles on the bed. Stiles yelps a little when Derek straddles him, pressing him back down against the mattress and pinning his wrists at his sides. He keeps Stiles like that for a while, grinding down with long, excruciatingly slow thrusts, until he’s writhing, desperate and babbling, underneath Derek.

“Me,” Derek says incredulously, and wow, there’s the growling again, and it’s really not disconcerting anymore. Pretty much the opposite of that, actually, which should probably worry Stiles. “I’m a tease,” Derek continues, rocking down vengefully. It’s possible, Stiles thinks, that he may have miscalculated just a little bit earlier.

“No?” he tries, hopefully.

Derek grins, feral and promising. “Well then,” he says, and somehow leverages his position to flip them so he’s sitting up on the bed with Stiles sprawled in his lap, his legs hooked around Derek’s waist. Derek drags a hand up from Stiles’ hip to his chest, teasing a nipple between his fingertips before he leans in and scrapes his teeth against it. Stiles squirms against him, hands splayed on Derek’s back, and bites down on a moan that’s dangerously close to a whine.

“You don’t have any?” Stiles asks, distracted. “I mean, I have them, I’m paranoid like that, but really?” He jumps a little when Derek growls, just a little, his hand tightening on Stiles’ bicep. “Yeah, okay, in the drawer, there-”

Stiles leans against Derek’s shoulder, breathless, as Derek turns away to rummage through the bedside table. “Derek,” he says, and hates himself a little bit when his voice breaks on the name. “C’mon, just-hurry.”

Derek looks up at that, eyes dark. “You’ve been wanting this for a long time, haven't you,” he says, circling a slick finger around Stiles’ hole before he presses it in, following it shortly after with another.

It isn’t really a question, but Stiles answers it anyway. “Yeah,” he breathes, shoving down on Derek’s fingers and moaning when they curl deep inside him, “so fucking long-” and it’s the truth, it feels like he’s been waiting for this forever. Stiles gasps sharply; he’s done this to himself, alone in his room, but this is nothing like that.

He almost changes his mind when he gets a good look at Derek’s cock, because there is just no way that’s ever going to fit in him, seriously. But Derek’s already pooling lube in Stiles’ hand and helping Stiles stroke it over his cock, and Stiles thinks it maybe might be worth a try. He squirms helplessly when Derek's cock slides teasingly between his thighs, rubbing over him.

“Here,” Derek murmurs, biting at Stiles’ jaw and jerking him forward, lining up their hips. “Just-” He lets out a ragged gasp when he pushes into Stiles, hips rocking into him slowly. Stiles leans in and bears down, feels his breath catch when Derek speeds up. He lets go, then, lets Derek hold him up and fuck into him, hands tight and possessive on his skin.

“For fuck’s sake,” he says a few minutes later, after Derek slows down again, having apparently decided that torturing Stiles is a good idea. “Derek, c’mon, please.” He arches into Derek, shameless.

Derek shudders lowly and then drives hard up into Stiles, urgent and deep and perfect, mouthing hotly at his shoulder. And there it is, finally, finally. Stiles clenches around Derek and shakes, orgasm hitting him in long, shivering waves.

They lie there for a few minutes afterwards, both of them flushed and out of breath. Stiles is never moving again, it’s official. He’s just going to hang out here and maybe make out with Derek a little. He thinks it’s a good plan, and makes an aggrieved noise when Derek shakes him off and sits up. “Wait here,” Derek says, like Stiles is going to run off and join a floating poker game or something instead, and then his weight’s shifting off the bed. He returns with a wet cloth, and his hand is gentle on Stiles when he runs it over him. Stiles closes his eyes, just for a second, and falls asleep before he can thank Derek.

Stiles wakes up slowly, in pieces: the good sore pull of his muscles as he stretches against the mattress, the rush of traffic, and the warmth of Derek against his side, lips brushing the shell of Stiles’ ear. He keeps his eyes closed against the morning light filtering in through the blinds, basking in the weight of Derek’s arms around him, the soft puff of his breath against Stiles’ cheek.

Derek stays quiet for a long second. “Listen, Stiles,” he begins, “I should probably tell you-”

Because his life is basically a case study in bad timing, Stiles’ phone picks that moment to ring from its place on the bedside table. He curses and gropes for it blindly, almost knocking it off the table before he manages to answer it.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Lydia says urgently. “I wanted to apologize for last night. We had an unfortunate misunderstanding, and your escort ended up at the wrong hotel. Among-other things. You’ll get a full refund, of course-”

“Hang on, Lydia,” Stiles says, twisting around to look at Derek. Who’s sitting up and looking just as confused as Stiles feels right now, so that’s kind of comforting. “Can I call you back?” he asks, and hangs up without waiting for Lydia’s response.

Stiles is so fucking confused right now. He looks at Derek uncertainly. “So either you’re an escort and this is a super bizarre coincidence, or...”

“So you’re not a hooker,” Stiles says, slowly. “Just to be clear.” He waits for Derek to shake his head. “So, this...” Stiles gestures between the two of them. “Was what, exactly? A hook-up?”

Derek turns red and looks away, suddenly very, very interested in the floor. He looks mortified. It’s a weird look on him. “No,” he says, then, “I mean, that’s pretty obviously what we were both going for, but. I wouldn’t mind if it went further. I like you.”

Stiles gapes at him. He’s still stuck on ‘went further’-nevermind ‘I like you’, because what the hell is someone like Derek doing saying that to Stiles-when Derek starts to talk again. Something about-

“Same,” he says, and winces. “I mean, I like you too, I’m just. Bad at this.” He leans in, curves a hand around Derek’s cheek and rasping his thumb over the stubble there. “Okay?” he asks, and presses a hopeful kiss to the corner of Derek’s mouth before pulling back again.

“Yeah,” Derek says, a hint of laughter in his voice, and Stiles lets out a poorly-hidden sigh of relief.

“Awesome.” He leans down and grabs his clothing with one hand, stabbing the other at Derek in an attempt to look imposing. Going by Derek’s amused expression, he fails horribly, but whatever. “I’ll be right back. Stay put,” he says, and heads into the bathroom to have a tiny, minor nuclear meltdown in the shower.

Derek’s fully dressed and just getting off his phone when Stiles emerges from the shower, cleaner and (slightly) calmer. “You’re coming to breakfast with my family,” he says. “Laura knows about you, we can’t escape.” He smiles a little, lopsidedly hopeful. “If it’s okay,” he adds.

Stiles stands still for a second, fighting a losing battle against a gigantic, idiotic smile. “Like a date?”